


A Different Kind of Sonnet

by thomasjeffersonsmacaroni



Category: Original Work
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, NaNoWriMo 2016, Rap, Shakespearean era england, Theater - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-01 04:52:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8608882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thomasjeffersonsmacaroni/pseuds/thomasjeffersonsmacaroni
Summary: The story of a poet in a dress and his best friend.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Patrice](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Patrice).



> In which I can't write Shakespearean English, so I write modern English and pretend that people don't notice or care.

When John Harrison woke up at the crack of dawn, he instantly jumped out of bed, grabbed his notebook, and ran across the small boarding room to wake up his friend, Thomas Winston.

"Whaaaaaaa....." Tom slurred as he rose from his bed, still not used to this daily tradition.

"I wrote another poem last night. Do you want to read it?"

Tom ran a hand through his sandy blond hair, trying to even it out, took the notebook from John's outstretched hand, and flipped it to the back page, mouthing along with the words as he held it up to the light.

"I like it," he said after a couple of minutes, now fully awake as he stood up and grinned widely at his best friend. "Still really weird for me because of how fast it is, but it's good. You have talent, John. You should come to one of my poetry groups with me sometime."

John shook his head as he moved to their shared closet and began to change out of his pajamas. "They won't like it. You know they all write their fancy sonnets that are slow and gentle. My writing is rough. They're not used to it. I don't think they'll accept me as part of their group."

"Nonsense," said Tom, looking as if he was going to angrily comfort him. "It may be different than what they're used to, and they'll definitely be weirded out at the beginning, I know I was, but once they get used to it, they'll like it. You worry too much, my friend."

"If you say so."

"I do say so. Do you want to meet up with me at the pub after you're done with work? I'm being let out early today."

"Tom, if I ever say no to that question, feel free to take an ax and slice my head clean off, because a life without the pub is a life not worth living."

Tom laughed and clapped John on the back. "I knew you'd say that. Just making sure that you were still my friend and not some sort of impostor."

He looked at the clock that was standing against the wall of the room that they shared. "We must head down to breakfast, or Betsy won't be pleased with us. And then, unfortunately, we have work."

"'Unfortunately' is right," said John, opening the door and beginning his journey down the staircase. "The only thing fortunate about early mornings is Betsy's eggs and ham. She's right when she calls them 'an English classic.'"

When the two got down, breakfast was already laid out on the table, accompanied by a note, which John picked up and read aloud.

"Boys, I'm sorry that I couldn't be here to wish you good morning. I had business on the other side of town. I hope you have a good day at your jobs. Your breakfast has already been laid out. With love, Betsy. Note written by Alexander."

"Wonder what 'business on the other side of town' she has," said Tom. "I think she said that she was going to sort things out with whoever scammed her out of her money."

John laughed. "'Sort things out' means that someone's going to get whooped. Our Betsy is determined when it comes to sales."

"You're right. I hope he doesn't get hurt _too_ badly."

"Me, too." Tom said this through a mouthful of breakfast, because while John had been reading the note aloud, he had sat down and stuffed his face with the English classic. Laughing and clapping him on the back gently, John sat down next to him and proceeded to eat his own food.

 

"John, will you come with me?" Tom asked at the end of the day, when the two were in the pub eating sandwiches and drinking beer.

"Depends, for what?"

"After the poetry circle this Saturday, I wanted to try out for that new play. _Romeo and Juliet._ You know how I feel about acting, and I really wanted to give this one a try. But I'm scared to go alone. Will you come with me?"

"Who are you trying out for?"

"Romeo, of course. Who else?"

Knowing Tom, who was always the type to grab the spotlight, John wasn't surprised. "I don't know. Juliet? You know women aren't allowed on stage, so men must fill their parts."

"Someone else can fill them. Maybe _you_ can try out. It's going to be easier kissing someone who's my friend than someone I barely know."

"I don't think they actually kiss," said John. "It's faked."

"Still. Will you try out with me? And come with me for support?"

"Fine." John himself never enjoyed being on stage, but since Tom, his best friend, was pestering him, he would have to reluctantly agree.

"Thanks so much!" Tom stood up from his seat, walked over to him, and hugged him. "And will you come to my poetry circle with me, too? They'll love your poems, I promise."

John sighed loudly and exaggeratedly, though there was no genuine malice in his reaction. "FINE. Only for you, though. Just know that without you, I would _never_ be doing this."

"I don't care, as long as you're doing it. Thank you, though, John. It really means a lot that you'd do all that for me."

"Of course."

 

On Saturday morning, John and Tom both woke up, grabbed their notebooks, and had breakfast with Betsy, who spent the morning regaling them with the tale of how she had gone into a tirade at the shopkeeper who had thought that he could scam her out of a deal just because she was a woman.

"Unbelievable," she said. "I'm not any more stupid just 'cause of what's in my pants. Just 'cause I can't perform in plays or own land doesn't mean I can't buy a cooking pot for my soup!"

"Unbelievable," Tom agreed. "He doesn't deserve your money. I'm going to take up pot making just so I can take your money fairly."

"Honey, if you made pots, I would expect them for free."

"I have a business to maintain," Tom protested. "But I'll give a discount just for you, Betsy."

"I suppose that's good enough," said the housekeeper, though she still looked jokingly miffed. "Good luck at poetry club and play auditions, both of you. Come home with speaking parts or don't come home at all."

"Betsy, we won't know who we are for another week," John explained. "And I don't want a speaking part at all. I'm only auditioning because Tom forced me to."

"All right, all right," said Betsy. "Good luck to you, Tom, and bad luck to you, John."

"Thank you," said both boys at the same time, finishing up their breakfast and putting it away.

"Have a good day, Betsy!" John called as they left for the poetry circle, notebooks in hand.

 

"...and in the night, there was no light, and I got quite a bit of a fright, but now I'm older, and now I know, the true fear comes from what people don't show."

John finished reciting the last line from his poem, put down his notebook, and sat down next to Tom, heart beating impossibly fast with fear. Around him, the faces were blank and confused, as if he had just spoken a foreign language.

"That's a strange poem," a boy, who had introduced himself at the beginning of the meeting as Will, said after a couple of seconds of pause. "Very...unique style."

"You have good rhymes," another boy said. "And I liked the feeling behind it. But it's really strange, I'll be honest with you. I never heard anything like it in my life."

"It's so fast," someone else said.

"It's my poetic style," John explained, already feeling put off and regretting that he had come. "It's meant to be fast. You know, like my thoughts and feelings are coming quickly."

Around the circle, there were nods, but people still looked as if they considered it weird.

"All right, let's move on," the leader of the club said when he saw the silence. "Thomas, would you like to share your poem with us?"

The others jumped instantly at the opportunity, and they looked at Tom and listened to him recite what he had written. Tom was a good poet, and John enjoyed listening to him recite, because he had a loud, clear voice, and he was adorable when he got excited about whatever it was he was saying. But this time, John found that he couldn't enjoy listening to his friend and watching him talk, because all he could do was look down at his shoes and regret that he had agreed to come along.

The poetry circle finished off, and John applauded and praised one or two of the other writings, but he did so with only faked enthusiasm. After the meeting, Tom stopped to talk to David, one of his friends from the club, and John stood by and listened.

"You're John, right?" David asked when there was a lull in the conversation. "Tom talks about you sometimes. Says that you're a good poet but you're too shy to come along."

"Tom thinks I'm good," mumbled John. "I tell him I'm not, but he enjoys what I write, and I like writing, so I've only shown it to him."

"I had to force him to come along," laughed Tom.

"And I'm glad he did," said David. "Your poem was good. The style wasn't like anything I was used to, but I liked it. Don't get yourself down because of everyone's reactions. I'm sure they were just surprised."

David's words seemed genuine, not like he was only saying what he was saying out of politeness, and John had to smile.

"Thanks. You're a good poet, too."

"You really are," said Tom. "You two are the best that I know. Like young Shakespeares."

"Speaking of Shakespeare," said John, "auditions are in less than an hour. We have to go."

"Let's go." Tom and John said their goodbyes to David, quickly made their way to the other end of London by ferry, and walked inside the theater where the auditions were being held.

 

"Thomas Winston and John Harrison, Romeo Montague and Juliet Capulet. Please step forward."

Tom took John's hand and led him on the stage. They stood side by side, palms touching, and faced each other.

"If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this, my lips, two blushing pilgrims ready stand, to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss." Tom spoke first, saying the words with an actor's passion, just as he had practiced all week in their room.

John did not have a natural inclination to act, but he tried when he said, somewhat hesitantly, "Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints half hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."

"Have not saints lips, and holy palmers, too?" John remembered that when they had practiced, Tom explained that he was the devoted lover, and John was supposed to act as Juliet testing the waters before diving in.

"Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer."

"O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; they pray, grant though, lest faith turn to despair."

"Saints do not more, though grant for prayers' sake."

"Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take."

Tom leaned in, pretending to kiss John; they had done their research and asked around, and they weren't supposed to actually kiss, just pretend.

"Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged," said Tom breathlessly, as if he were amazed by the "kiss."

"Then have from my lips the sin that they have took," said John without hesitation.

"Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again."

Another fake kiss, but this time the first line was John's.

"You kiss by the book."

"End scene," said Tom as he turned around.

"Very good. You may go, and I'll send you a letter in a week about whether or not you two have been cast. Thank you for auditioning."

"See, that wasn't too bad," said Tom as the two walked home in the warm summer streets.

"It  _was_ too bad. It was painful. Excruciating. I have no idea why you even brought me along."

"Oh, shut up _._ "

 

A week later, Tom and John were in their room playing chess when they heard a knock on the door.

"Come in," said Tom without looking up.

"I have two letters, one for each of you," said Betsy when she opened the door and looked inside. "They must be from the casting director. Also, John, that move you're about to make isn't very good. I would do something better."

"BETSY!" Tom protested as he took the letters. "You never give  _me_ hints when we're playing."

"That's because you don't need them. Tell me what these say when you're done."

John had wanted to wait until the end of the game, but Tom grabbed the envelopes, ripped them open, and read them.

"We've both been cast!" he exclaimed with delight. "You too, John. First rehearsal is Monday, and the casting director already took the liberty of writing to our bosses and telling them that we wouldn't be at work because of it. Oh, John, I'm so happy!"

John had thought about this moment, and he had expected to feel dread if he learned that he had been cast. Looking at Tom's excited expression, though, he found it impossible to feel anything remotely close.

"I can't wait," he said, and to his surprise, he genuinely meant it.

 

"Welcome to the London production of _Romeo and Juliet_. All of you have been cast because you're talented actors, and I trust that you will give us a good performance. I trust that all of you have committed the script to memory already?"

In the small crowd of young men, there were nods, and John felt grateful for all the nights that he spent awake with a candle, whispering the words of Juliet's parts to himself.

"Very good. Let's begin our first rehearsal. For now, we'll just read the parts out loud, and we'll be working on choreography and stage directions later."

The group of men who had been cast as the chorus began; they did not speak at the same time, so the first fourteen lines sounded awkward and strange, as did most of the rest of the play, but that was to be expected of the first time, according to the casting director.

"Don't worry. With some practice, we'll have the perfect performance soon enough."

 

"Soon enough" seemed for weeks as if it would never come, John lamented to Betsy over dinner one night, Tom sitting by his side. Every rehearsal, it seemed as if something would go wrong: a main character would forget his lines, a dress would get torn, someone would become ill and unable to come for a week.

"Opening night is in a couple of days," John complained, "and we still have people who don't know what they're doing."

"As long as you two make me proud, I don't care about everyone else," said Betsy. "If other people don't know what they're doing, then it's your job to give the best performance possible to make up for them."

"Thanks, Betsy," said John genuinely. "That made me feel better."

"You always know what to say," said Tom. "How in the world do you do that?"

"Practice. Years and years of practice. You'll learn, too, when you have to comfort your friends whose lovers don't write back."

"She's right," said Tom to John. "Everything will be okay, and it's up to us to make sure that it is. Even when the entire damn company is letting us down, we can't do the same to them."

 

It was said one time that the worse the rehearsal, the greater the show, and the opening performance of the London production of _Romeo and Juliet_ proved that saying one hundred percent right. Everything went flawlessly, and although John felt nervous at first about going on stage in front of people, he saw Betsy in the back with her husband, Alexander, and she smiled at him, and he performed all of his lines without messing up a single time. The applause at the end was thunderous, and he didn't get a single rotten vegetable thrown at him, which was something that he sometimes saw happen when he went to plays on his own.

"I'm proud of you," said Tom afterwards, brown eyes sparkling with delight, and the feeling that John got when he saw his smile was so warm that he immediately ran to write a poem about it. When he showed it to Tom, who was always his first audience, he smiled and nodded.

"I feel the exact same way. You always manage to know what I'm thinking. How do you manage?"

"Practice," said John, in a pitch perfect imitation of Betsy. "Years and years of practice."

 

Time passed, weeks and even months, as the play proved to be so popular that it needed to run for months so that everyone who wanted to see it could, and both John and Tom soon found themselves relatively rich, as they, being the stars of the play, got the most amount of money. They became good friends with their co-stars, helping them brush up on everything that they needed help with, John continued to write poems, and Betsy went to almost every single showing without fail. Any outsider would say that John's life was perfect, and John himself would say the same thing.

Except for one thing. Tom.

It wasn't that he had changed and suddenly become terrible and abusive. It was that John had changed, and Tom had suddenly become incredibly beautiful. He had soft tan skin, sandy blonde hair that always seemed to be at least a little bit messy, brown eyes that had a certain actor's charm to them, and, most importantly, full pink lips that every day, John came just close enough to kiss. And in one fell swoop, he found himself wanting to lean just an inch further, so that their lips could truly meet.

But they were men. It wasn't right. They were both supposed to marry women, and he wasn't supposed to be feeling this kind of way about his male best friend. He felt conflicted inside, and it tore him apart and caused him nothing but pain, so he handled the situation the same way he handled every other situation.

He wrote poetry.

 

"What's that you're writing?" Tom asked one day after their performance as he walked into the dressing room and saw John scribbling something on a notebook in the corner.

"Oh, just finishing up a poem." The boy looked frantic, uncharacteristically so when Tom asked him about his writing, and he flipped a page back so that he was looking at something else.

"Can I see?"

"Yeah, of course." John handed him the notebook. It was a short poem, one that Tom hadn't seen, but the ink looked dry, as if it had been written a long time ago and not just now.

 _He's hiding something. This isn't like him._ If John was hiding something from Tom, it was probably for a good reason, so he didn't ask him about it and merely nodded. "It's good. I like it."

But as he walked away, he heard a page flip forward, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness at the fact that his own friend wasn't showing him something for the first time in his life.

 

Just before the next day's performance, John left the dressing room to talk to someone, and Tom couldn't help but notice that he left his notebook on the table. Without a second thought, he picked it up, flipped to the most recently used page, and read what John had written. And then he realized why he wouldn't want to show him.

_We’re both men, and I know it’s not right, and that’s what keeps me up at night_

_When I rise from bed and think about my duty, and my conscience is dirty and soiled and sooty_

_A woman as my wife would get me children, a man as my lover would just get me killed, then_

_Why the hell do I feel these sinful desires? Burning inside of me like little fires_

_All uniting into one light, setting my house on fire at night_

_And as I watch it burn, I can feel myself learn that I’m too far gone, I cannot turn_

_Into the person I once was, and I cry and I cry and I cry because_

_Before I met him I was safe and free, and my life was filled with honesty_

_Now my very insides cringe at the lies that I tell myself in the middle of the night_

_“I don’t love him” that’s what I say under the moon, and the only comfort that I get is that soon_

_It will be the day. That’s when I can truly say_

_My flame is just one in the afternoon sun, lighting up the wonderful streets of London_

_All united under the sky of the city, no fear and no tears and no reason for pity_

_Just me in a dress, just me saying “yes,” just me thinking about how this is the best that I’ll ever get, just me on a stage on a set_

_Playing the part of the woman I’m not, that’s the closest I’ll ever come and the best that I’ve ever got_

_And under claps and cheers, there is nothing to fear_

_And this doesn’t feel wrong, and there’s a light inside of me that sings a song and makes me want to bring someone along_

_And so I write this song that isn’t a song and scribble on a page what I’ll never say on a stage, never say aloud, never shout so proud in front of a crowd_

_I think about brown eyes, and without lies, there’s no surprise at how they make me feel inside_

_And soft golden hair with a bright sunlit shine, and no bittersweetness that he’ll never be mine_

_Because in this line, all I can think about is how fine it is that he’s my friend and how I don’t want this moment to end_

_This place on the stage where we embrace and look at each other face to face_

_And then we almost kiss, and I want it, just like this_

_And that moment is a little forever_

_In that moment we’re always together_

_But that moment is just a moment_

_Will always be a moment_

_And nothing more_

_And I’ll never be able to go back_

_To the person that I was before_

Tom touched his lips with his free hand, as if feeling the ghost of a kiss that John wanted to leave there.  _He loves me. He LOVES me. Loves me like he should be loving a woman._

His head was spinning, and he had to sit down to handle this new situation. The first thing he needed to figure out was whether he felt about John the same way. But as he asked himself that question, he found that there could  _be_ no question; he wanted John with every part inside of him, and the mere thought of these new feelings was making his head spin even more. In that moment, he couldn't care less about what the Bible said about man lying with man. All that he cared about was that he loved John, and John loved him, and when the other boy came in and moved toward him with concern written on his face, all that Tom could do was stand up and hug him.

"I read your poem," he whispered, putting his head on his shoulder. "And I just want you to know that I feel the exact same way about you. Only I couldn't express it like you. Not in millions of poems."

John released the embrace and looked at him, and for what was probably the first time in their lifelong friendship, he didn't know what to say to him. Instead he nodded, took his hand, and led him to the stage, where it seemed like all of London waiting for them to perform.

Tom found it difficult to focus on the situation at hand, to put himself in the mind of the heartbroken Romeo in Act I, not when his senses were electrified with this newfound realization. And during Act II, when he stood in front of John as Juliet, wearing that long white dress and flowers in his hair, palms touching, the electrified feeling did nothing but increase, so much that he leaned his body that extra inch and kissed him for real.

Stage convention dictated that they had to release the kiss instantly, so Tom did, and John looked stunned as he said his next lines. But the next time they had to kiss, Tom braved the gap again, and this time, John kissed him back.

And, in his own words, that moment was a little forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Patrice because she helped me figure out how to end this. I love you so much <3


End file.
